Change in the House of Flies
by Yxonomei
Summary: Everyone believes Will was killed when the Governor refused to pay the ransom. 5 years later Jack discovers that there are worse things than death and that a taunt made long before has become horribly prophetic. (Slash JSxWT, graphic torture&mutilation)
1. Prologue

Archive: FanFiction.net, my LiveJournal, Adultfanfiction.net, Slashfanfiction.com, and wherever someone asks me for it (send me an email or something to ask for it).

Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to the Pirates of the Caribbean or its characters, which solely belong to Disney, et al, but that hasn't stopped me from writing about them.

**Warning:** This story contains the themes of graphic torture/mutilation, and male/male relationships, a.k.a. slash/yaoi. If any of these may offend you, then stop reading. If, however, you do read this, in spite of my warnings, and find it offensive, then I have to say it is your own fault. Some scenes are of an erotic nature, but I have attempted to write them as tastefully as my ability allows.

**Note:** I will not accept any flames, however, comments and criticisms are welcome. I am under the assumption that anyone reading this has a clear understanding of the difference between flames and criticisms so I don't have to explain it. Here are some reason why I don't accept flames: **1) **they generally include an attack on the author's character without regard to previous or future works that may or may not be in the same vein, **2)** not only are they childish, but they make the writer of them sound immature and not old enough to read the material contained herein, **3)** flames help neither the author nor the flamer to improve the work and, therefore, are not constructive, **4)** if something is so offensive as to elicit the impulse to flame then it is better forgotten and not dwelled upon, **5) **you waste time writing it and I waste time reading and then deleting it, **6)** it won't do you any good to point out my lack of scruples, morals, intelligence, sanity, etc., because not only don't I care, but I won't listen.

Thank you for your kind regards and any reviews (not flames) that you will allocate to me.

From Your Sight,

Yxonomei Ayauhteotl

::Change in the House of Flies::

*~Prologue~*

The horrified screams of Elizabeth Swann echo through the manor as the proof of her fiancé's death rests in the terrified hands of a young messenger boy. Governor Swann barely manages to catch his swooning daughter. The attendant servants take after Miss Swann's example and fall into fits of hysterics. Commodore James Norrington, ever the leader, orders the glass jar to be covered and the young miss to be taken to her chambers posthaste.

"Merciful heavens," the governor murmurs over and over in a chant for unwarranted forgiveness. Clumsily he crosses himself and sags onto the nearest ottoman. "I should have…I should have given them what they asked for. I should have…"

"You did what you believed best, governor," Norrington reassures him. The jar and its sickening contents have been hurriedly hidden away from sight in the liquor cabinet. The dark-haired man gives a slight shudder, horror momentarily breaking through the veneer of a stoic naval man.

"That is the point, commodore. I acted as governor; I should have acted as a man, as a father-in-law. Oh, Saints preserve us, it is too late." Awkward sorrow and bitter regret chokes the old man. He covers his face with the hands of a gentleman, but inside he knows that, beneath the fine white gloves, they are the hands of a murderer. Murder by negligence, homicide through stubborn pride and a misguided sense of duty. Elizabeth will never forgive him.

Never.

Norrington remains silent. He has no words of respite for the aged governor. The sorrow and reality of young Turner's brutal death has shocked him to the very core of his being. Somehow, in a place untouched by pride and politics, he believed that there would be a happy ending.

*~*~*~*

"Send the message out that the search is to be called off," Norrington tells Gillette with eerie control. The lieutenant shifts uneasily under the completely expressionless gaze of his commanding officer. The commodore's face is pale and drawn, age lines just beginning to crease the corners of his dark eyes, and cold as a sheet of ice. 

"Sir?"

"Turner is dead. Call back the ships."

"Dead, sir?"

"Yes." There is a broken harshness beneath the clipped tone. Gillette nods hesitantly. This is a great blow. Though not on familiar terms with the young man, Gillette has a highly developed sense of respect for Turner. After all, he risked life and dignity to rescue Miss Swann from the clutches of blackguards. He had thought nothing could touch a man who could triumphantly survive such an ordeal, once again reality reasserts her bloodied face. 

"Gillette." The lieutenant pauses on his way out the door to deliver his superior's command. A leather pouch weighted and musical with the sound of coins sails through the air. He grabs it clumsily. "Make sure the payment is delivered with the note."

"Note, sir?" The commodore indicates the small bag. A small scrap of paper, precisely folded in half, has been attached to the drawstring by a bit of black ribbon. "Ah yes, sir."

He leaves Norrington looking imperiously unaffected, hands crossed in a gentlemanly manner at the small of his back. When the door clicks shut the commodore's broad shoulders sag ever so slightly. 

"'Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…'"

*~*~*~*

"Sparrow, got a note fer ye." The lithe, swaying form of said person stops and then, in a whirling halo of hair and beads, he turns around and sashays up to the burly tavern owner.

"That's Captain, c-a-p-t-a-i-n, Captain Sparrow, and throw in Jack if we be going by the firsts." The pirate grins rakishly, gold teeth glinting in the smoky light. 

"We-ell then, _captain_, I 'ave 'ere a note, like I been sayin', and I be thinkin' it's from that li'l job you've been sweatin' on for nigh two months gone now."

"Hand it over, you blackguard, and keep a mind to your own business," Jack warns the man gamely. Even the lightest tone hides a garrote wire stretched taut. Grumbling in the manner of all curs denied a juicy tidbit, the man reaches below the counter and tosses up a leather pouch and the attached missive. 

"What be that, cap'n?" Joshamee Gibbs[1] asks as he comes up behind the fey rogue. Shadowed eyes briefly scan the note. 

"Well, Gibbs, it seems as if the gracious commodore is no longer in need of our services and has left us with our pay." Jack's voice is pleasant enough, careless enough, but there is a tension dwelling beneath his words. The words are oddly strained, the potential for violence less obscured in foppish dandyism. 

"They found young William, then?" The portly man smiles in evident relief. He assumes Jack's subtly put-off air finds origination in the fact that it wasn't he who managed to play the dashing rogue with the well-hidden heart of gold, or perhaps he just wanted to prove he could outwit the Royal Navy. One never knows with the likes of Captain Jack Sparrow. 

"No." Jack crumples the note and tosses it at the startled Gibbs. The smile on his face is more deranged than normal and yet wholly, frighteningly sane. The purse of coins disappears with nary a sound as the quartermaster reads the three little words that have affected his captain so. 

'Turner is dead.'

"Merciful Spirit…Nay, this canna be true, Jack. Not Will—" Jack throws one eloquent arm about the horrified sailor's shoulders.

"Oh, sir, we might have been paid in gold, but there's another debt we needs must be collecting. And this one"—the darkness in Jack's eyes seems to spread in feathered edges far past the limits of his face, as if the shadows of his soul are seeping out—"This one requires blood."

A hardness born of sailing life shifts Gibbs normally dismissively innocuous face. The darkness radiating from the pirate captain is contagious and the only antidote seems to be revenge. 

"Aye. Then it be best we start a collectin'."

*~*~*~*

"You see, sir," Jack murmurs as he slowly draws out a pale loop of the eviscerated pirate's intestine, "you did something quite, quite naughty, you did. You went and you…took something that did not belong to you." The man, former scourge of the Windward Passage, former captain of the _Bonny Maid_[2] and murderer of one William Turner, Jr., grins madly. Even tied down to one of the _Pearl_'s cannons, abdominal flesh peeled back to reveal the helpless, wet organs within, he grins without fear and without sanity.

Jack's face is all pleasant smiles, as if he is conversing in some lord's parlor and not playfully gutting a man alive. The crew of both ships watch the two men with eyes nearly black with revulsion and horror. Blood soaks both men dark crimson, but they simply smile eerily at each other amid the silence of the ocean. 

"So you're…the judge and…executioner," the dying man laughs softly. Jack chuckles as well and rips the strand of intestine out violently. It lands upon the _Pearl_'s deck with a juicy splat. The noxious odor of the torn organ begins to overpower the stench of blood and gunpowder. 

"I suppose I am, mate." Tenderly the _Pearl_'s captain runs sanguine hands across the other's slowly pulsing heart. He stares deep into the dying man's eyes, hands wrapped around the vulnerable organ, and watches him die. When the heart is still he tears it free and hurls it into the hungry ocean. [3]

"Well, what should I do with the rest you?" he asks the prisoners jovially. He faces them, smiling, covered in blood and other fluids, and everyman (and woman) swears that, at that instant, Lucifer himself stands before them. 

AnaMaria, fearless woman and fearsome pirate, quells before the demon in their captain's flamboyant body. This is not Jack, her mind tells her, but something deeper whispers that the bloody creature is. This is the Jack that no one wants to meet. This is the Jack that lurks too close to the surface of the playful rogue. 

"Cut off their arms and leave them aboard their ship," the captain orders calmly, smilingly. He nods at AnaMaria to handle this matter and retires to his cabin. 

"Oh, and one more thing." Everyone jumps a little as Jack sticks his head back out. "Make sure their captain is lashed to the wheel. Perhaps he will steer them all to hell with him."

The woman swallows the viscous bile oozing up her throat and repeats the orders. Jack's crew, haunted by this new side of their captain, snap to it. The command is fulfilled with great haste. The screams and unheeded pleas of the enemy nearly drown out the splatter of blood and the wet thunk of falling limbs. 

Less than ten minutes have passed since Jack captured the _Maid_'s captain, and already the man is dead and thirty others doomed to follow in his burial shoes. The Devil must be turning a right caper, Jack thinks to himself as he sips from a bottle of good rum. 

However, all the screaming above and all the rum within have not yet erased the three little words that compelled his actions today:

'Turner is dead.'

*~*~*~*

"Elizabeth, are you certain this is the right course of action?" Commodore Norrington asks the young lady moments away from boarding a merchant ship bound for England. 

"Yes. There are too many memories here, too many." Grief has left an indelible mark upon Elizabeth's elegant features. She seems to be little more than an animated doll. "I need to move on and I cannot do that here." A wan smile briefly lights her flat blue eyes. "Good bye, James."

  
She pats his hand comfortingly and turns away. 

"Good bye, Elizabeth." Norrington attempts to smile gamely, but all that appears is a pained grimace. 

Elizabeth Swann turns her back to Port Royal and never looks back. 

*&*&*&*&*&*

[1] I actually did not invent this name. On the extended DVD version of PotC there is a little thing called the Diaries and I discovered the character's full name in the section called "Diary of a Pirate" (which is the one where we follow the man who plays Pintel around and he introduces us to people and whatnot.) Additionally, the commodore's known full name is James Norrington (Elizabeth call's Norrington 'James' in one of the deleted scenes.). I don't know if there's a middle name, but probably. 

[2] I have not based the _Bonny Maid_ on any real ship that I know of. It probably was or is the name of some ship somewhere, but I'm not talking about it. This ship, her crew and her captain are all fictional, to my knowledge.

[3] I am fully aware of the sheer improbability of this scene. Taking into account blood loss and the pain threshold of most humans, it is highly unlikely that the man could have spoken with such coherency. However, seeing as this is fiction and I have never actually cut someone open and watched them bleed to death, I feel somewhat reassured in my own creative license. 

**Final Notes: **For all of those who have read the little piece of fiction involving OCs, I only have a problem with the Mary Sue variety (girl, who is the main character of the fanfic., falls in love with canon male. They have a romantic relationship, blah blah blah.). Any others (especially villains!) are fine with me. After all, if not for the **non-pairing** OCs, we would experience the Wuthering Heights Syndrome, which is to say that there apparently only exists eight people in that world. 

*

My reasoning behind Jack's sudden barbarity at the end of this chapter is that, despite the happy, easygoing, Disney portrayal of him, he is a pirate. Not only that, he has learned his lesson about being soft with others after Barbossa. Besides, he does truly care about Will in my universe and would gladly seek bloody retribution. 


	2. Chapter One

::Change in the House of Flies::

*~Chapter One~*

A Passage of Five Years:

Through the smoky, alcohol-filled haze of the tavern vaguely human shapes jostle and stumble about like pieces in some heathen's game board. Whores dressed in patched taffeta skirts and tight bodices flit about in the manner of cannibalistic butterflies. At a shadowed table pushed back from the noisy and noisome rabble, one of many such tables, a favorite rumor is making the rounds. 

"I 'eard they cut off 'is 'ead and sent it in a barrel of good red wine," says one of the disreputable men at the table. The gauntlet is thrown and the others must reveal a rumor of the governor's son-in-law's demise to top that.

"Well, that may be," retorts another, stroking his salt and pepper beard. "But I be havin' it on good, solid evidence that they sent his peeled and pickled skin back in a clay pot." The first man scoffs but the others applaud. The man with the beard leans back in his chair. He looks supremely confident. 

"My sister knows a maid workin' in th' guvnor's house," a ginger-haired sailor announces grandly. "She says th' pirates cut off a part of th' lad and sent it every time th' money wussunt paid. Th' fingers and th' toes and so on 'till they'd sent the 'tire body over, piece by piece." The sailor grins and accepts a tankard passed his way. The first two tale-tellers mutter about the improbability of the upstart's account. 

"Gentlemen, gentlemen, you all have it wrong." A thin, waspish man shoves his way into the throng of revelers. "The pirates did something far worse." Eager for the macabre, the men angle towards the man like blighted flowers to the sun. "They cut of the boy's—" Here he clears his throat and stares pointedly at the first man's lap. The men sitting about the rickety table pale noticeably and shift to hide their endowments from imagined attackers. 

"Ridiculous!" the redhead blusters. The other men take up the chorus of incredulity and drive the stranger from their midst. Feeling like true men, they settle back down to drink and tale. 

Only later, when it comes time to pay the bill for this night's depravity, will they realize that their loads have been lightened by the loss of their coin purses. 

*~*~*~*

While the _Black Pearl_ is careened[1] under the capable management of the carpenter, Captain Jack Sparrow takes a moment to borrow a nearby fishing boat—it's owners having decided to make a jaunt inland—and investigate the trading possibilities at a nearby harbor town. His main goal, though, is the appropriation of a new cutlass, his other having gone the way of a certain English monarch: beheaded, as it were. The blade and hilt had a disagreement during a flurry of blows and decided to seek their fortunes separately. This was all well and good for them, but Jack had been left in a tight spot, which had only been remedied by the sudden and fortuitous pitching of the merchant sloop's deck. He hates it when the prize fights back. 

He lands and strands the boat on a sandbar to the southeast of the town. Humming a jaunty tune where the nonsensical words 'yo-ho-ho' play a key part, he wades to shore. Wet but confidant he promenades into town. 

The harbor town, with its jutting wharves, is no great point in the traffic of goods. There are no warships standing guard, no fort battlements bristling with canons and red-coated men, and no appointed governor. A loose affiliate of prominent traders maintains a volunteer militia to keep watch over the transient population of seafarers. Jack learns all of this from the varied and various denizens he manages to charm with his casual and carefree friendliness. 

His rolling, seemingly inebriated stride leads him faithfully among the dirt/mud streets and loose plank buildings. Every once and a while he pauses, still swaying and fluttering his elegant hands, to ask some innocent person the location of the local blacksmith to which he adjusts his course accordingly. In such a manner he finds himself before a building smelling of smoke and metal. 

For a moment he is transported to years previous and to a similar shop under dissimilar circumstances. Perhaps, if he closes his dark eyes, the matched stomp of soldiers' feet and hysterical cries of confused townsfolk will fill the air; and if he slips inside, hands now manacled, he will only have to wait a little while till a young man with honest hazel eyes enters. Then he could play his hand differently.

Or maybe not.

Young Will Turner had been a right stick at that particular encounter, and for several more after that. 

"Bloody stupid idiot," Jack murmurs fondly. The sign above the door says "Gow" and not "Brown." There will be no righteous young Turner awaiting a duel inside. 

"So you know Mister Gow as well?" The pirate whirls around, brandishing the broken sword. He finds himself threatening a small, balding man of firm build and only the slightest hint of having let himself go. "You won't be fighting too well with that, son," the man informs him serenely. 

"I'm here"—Jack nods at the blacksmith's door—"to remedy that."

"Splendid!"

"Indeed, mate." He sheathes his blade and turns to enter said shop of armaments. However, the curious and knowing gaze of the stout, little man stalls him. He spins back to find the man regarding him in the manner of a person in possession of a critical piece of intelligence but does not know if he should share it.

Jack decides to haste the deliberation. 

"You look like a man who knows something that maybe I should be wanting to know as well."

"Are you, then, a man who might find great need of a reliable and trustworthy blade?" The pirate flashes a gold-toothed grin. 

"Aye, that be me."

The little man nods and makes a noise of apparent satisfaction. "Then I doubt Mister Gow's offerings would please you. To be fair, he is an excellent smith of common goods, but his blades are merely serviceable."

"Then I suspect you know of a place, mate, where I might find an edge more than 'serviceable'?" Jack enjoys the dance of words as much as that of combat or sex. He might have added rum to the list, but he finds, more often than not, rum is the cause of dance and not a dance in itself. 

"True, but a man who does disservice to his weapon"—pointed look at Jack's—"only needs a serviceable one." Jack nods solemnly. 

"But you see, sir, this sword has served me faithfully since I first lifted it as a whelp, and only now has it gone to seek its eternal reward." He winks gamely and performs a little bow. The little man smiles ever so slightly.

"Excellent. Follow me." With an amused grin and a quick glance around, Jack does what he is told for the second or third time in his life. He matches the man's choppy gait with his own rolling stride. 

As they wend their way up through the maze of streets and dingy buildings, a sudden thought strikes the cheerful rogue. "You wouldn't happen to be a rival blacksmith, now would you? Perhaps pilfering a bit of business?" He highly doubts this, taking in the lack of grime and forge residue on the man's clothing, but he is curious. 

"Goodness, no," the man laughs. "I make my trade as a chirurgeon[2], physician and dentist hereabouts."

"A sort of jack-of-all-trades, only less trades and more medicine orientated, then?"

"Yes, but I prefer being a chirurgeon." Jack gives his companion a strange look, which goes unnoticed as the little man is puffing along quite contentedly. 

"So what be your name, goodly butcher?" The stout, little man quirks an eyebrow at Jack and smiles genially.

"Smith." The pirate blinks twice in mild surprise but never loses his stride. 

"'Smith'?"

"Aye, Arthur J. Smith."

"Fancy that," Jack drawls as he curls one end of his moustache. "I be a Smith here, too." The little man's smile broadens into a smile of indulgent amusement. 

"Many here are Smiths, but I was born to my last name."

"Interesting."

As if to emphasize this statement, a sudden gust of mephitic harbor wind runs past them. Loose cloth flaps as the scents of low tide, salt and human and animal refuse swirl up and then recede. These smells, fragrances to Jack, all speak of familiarity. No matter where he anchors, whether it be in the sultry Caribbean or the boreal waters up north, these towns, perched precariously upon curvatures of land and washed in the amniotic fluids of the Earth, are the same. People might wear different coifs and speak languages unfamiliar, but they all smell the same. Jack likes that. 

Soon the loose-board houses of the common rabble give way to the brick and plaster of the well-to-do traders and men of greater means. Mr. Smith lives upon the threshold, or, perhaps, the cusp, of these two walks of life. A neatly painted sign proclaims the little man's collective practices from atop an especially tall fence post of pale wood. The house itself possesses many airy windows to catch the redolent ocean breezes and two stories. Behind the house a tracery of smoke rises into the cloudless sky and vigorous hammering of metal against metal abuses the air. 

"So you weren't lying. You are what you say. And I do believe that be the sound of a blacksmith." The man's gives a halcyon smile, neither smug nor aggrieved at the pirate's apparent lack of confidence. 

"I have a young man in my employ (how he came to be that is quite a tale, though for another day) and he crafts—or perhaps I should say 'gives birth to'—weapons of most extraordinary quality. All edges are custom and seem to more of an extension of the hand, than some strange implement or tool."

"Apart from extolling this pup's virtues, have you any experience with blade?" Jack asks wryly. He doesn't say so, but he knows—or rather _knew_—one of the greatest swordsmiths of the Caribbean. The techniques of young Turner know no equal in the pirate's eyes. Everyone else will always find second ranking in his mind. 

"I cut people open, sir. My swords might not be as long as some, but they are far more accurate." The layers of innuendo permeating the chirurgeon's words are enough to asphyxiate a man. The pirate settles on a feral smirk and a noncommittal noise. 

"The door is around back. It's likely Black, that's the youth's name, won't hear you, so just shout or something when you enter."

Jack tips and imaginary hat and sashays through the gate and makes his swaying way to the back of the house. The banging, previously shielded by the bulk of the house, becomes more pronounced and quite annoyingly repetitive. Bang. Bang. Bang. 

This is why Jack loathes the land. On the ocean the sounds are lyrical and full of subtle melodies and chords. The land rips harmony away in bloody tears and leaves behind discordant and flat tones. Water moves in unbounded beauty. Earth squats in its own rigidity. Unfortunately for Jack, most people cannot seem to realize or see this and spend altogether too much time and effort on land. In his mind he imagines huge floating communities held together by the melodic call of waves, no more permanently placed than flotsam. Everything one now finds on land, blacksmiths, kingdoms, _et cetera_, would bob up and down upon oceans and currents. Jack fully subscribes to the idea of the possession of land being the origination of all inequality and unhappiness; though, he concedes, without all those fools beholden to bits of dirt, there wouldn't be much in the way of piracy as he knows it. Gold and other bits of shiny metals that cause men to bloody their hands in their neighbor's intestines wouldn't hold value. 

Shaking his head, careful of not setting the ornaments in his hair to pendulous movements, he dismisses the rather bad Natural Philosopher in his soul and approaches the source of such obstreperous ejaculations. The forge proves to be of expensive red brick of decent proportions. Jack is put in mind of a large oven designed by overenthusiastic cannibals. Yet the banging continues unremittingly, so one must safely assume that there is no baking of persons taking place inside—at least not the kind intended for _Titus Andronicus_. 

Jack soon revises his previous revision of the forge not being an oven upon opening the door. The air outside is hot and sticky in a way only places of this latitude can be; the inside of the forge is a furnace of boiling air and metallic fumes. For a moment the pirate feels as if his skin is issuing one prolonged shriek, then he adjusts and steps inside. 

The noise is that much louder; the heat that much hotter. The smell of fire, sweat and metal burns his nose and settles thickly in the back of his throat. The progenitor of all this hammers busily and obliviously away in front of a contained inferno while one foot works steadfastly and rhythmically upon a cleverly constructed bellows to keep the flame intensity. Taking the little man's advice in mind he issues a bellow that only one accustomed to such vocalizations can make. The consistent banging ends in an odd note and then stops. The foot ceases its motions and the blacksmith, Black (how quaint, Jack thinks silently), turns around as he wipes his hands upon his leather apron. 

Fire at his back and only the dimmest slices of light wheedling their way in through the ceiling, this paragon of smiths (not Smiths) is in sharp shadow. However (and there is always one of those in Jack's fluttering existence), he knows this person standing before him, asking him his business. The words 'have I held you up before?' are on the tip of his tongue like a rehashed line in a bad whorehouse comedy—or mayhaps a tragedy. 

The light is on his face. He knows it must be casting his charcoal lined eyes into demonic shadows and giving him a right villainous appearance; otherwise, why would the young smith tense so. Unless… 

"What do you want here, pirate?"

*&*&*&*&*&*

[1] To careen a ship is to beach it, tip it over and then scrap off all the accumulated barnacles, seaweed, etc. on the hull. All ships sailing the seas did this, as all the extra organic matter slowed the vessel down. As one can imagine, speed was very important to pirates and so careening was also very important.

[2] 'Chirurgeon' is an archaic form of the world 'surgeon'. 

**Notes**: I am unrepentant about the sudden ending of this chapter. It hit the sixth page, and I needed a break. I'm sure you all know who the smith is, so this isn't some puerile ploy at clever guesswork. The inspiration fount needs recharging. I hope this, though truncated as it may seem, meets with approval and perhaps approbation.

*

I would like to extend my sincerest thanks to **jacklover, npetrenko** and **Sam** who so graciously reviewed with kind encouragement for the continuation of this complex story.

**pendragginink**, a 'novel'? That review is more like a doctorate thesis! So full of helpful information and knowledge, not to mention the opinions! I must say that I am humbled to have elicited such a stream of insight. Thank you for taking so much time out to write such an enlightening piece for a mere review!


	3. Chapter Two

bImportant Link/b for all SLASH writers and those who wish to write SLASH accurately: () is by a igay/i man who is also a prolific slash writer. He offers an open minded and very informative opinion on what gay men can and cannot do sexually, fetishes, positions, kinks, iet cetera/i. Plus there are many pretty (bexplicit/b) illustrations and reference materials. (It inspired me to buy several gay erotica anthologies).

::Change in the House of Flies::

*~Chapter Two~*

"There is nothing for you here, sir," the ghost of the past tells Captain Jack Sparrow. The seeming nonsensical, lambent witticisms that normally flow from his lips in an endless deluge are noticeably absent, a verbal void. 

Now, Jack has always dreamed, whether on land or on water. Most of the time his is the _Pearl_ or some aquatic avian; other times his somnolent navigations take him to meet with people long since gone from his life or he revisits events that have left their scares but this time he doesn't escape. Perhaps, then, these can be called nightmares. Barbossa and his crew of mutinous followers strand him countless times upon barren scraps of humiliated land without his effects, rumrunners or spitfire, abducted virgins. Some nights the noose cuts deeply into his neck as he dances in the air or a bullet strikes closer to a vital organ. Sometimes he relieves fragments of his time with Bill Turner and, in more recent years, with that of his earnest son, Will. 

However, dreams of Will are the myriad of threads that could have been woven into their meetings, and none are so innocent as their original conceptions. There are hot, panting mouths and limbs wet with sweat, all tangled and inseparable. Innocent and untutored lips wrap around his aching cock or pale thighs spread to offer a greater sanctuary. But, for all of this, he never reaches the pinnacle of their physical congress. Living flesh turns cold and clammy, putrefies. Instead of his naïve and eager lover, a bloated, drowned corpse asks him 'why' with blue lips and milky, death-glazed eyes. 

_'Why didn't you come sooner?'_

_'Why didn't you save me?'_

To this endless prosecution he has no exculpating words, no argument eloquent enough. 

_'Why did you let me die?_'

"Why are you here?" 

It takes Jack a moment to realize that the last question has come from the living incarnation of his night time daemon. Painted with soot and gilded with sweat, the earnest face demands answers posthaste. 

"Will?" The name passes the pirate's sea-dried lips with the barest hint of a prayer, though to what blind and deaf God he cannot say. 

Tension snaps taut all the muscles in the youth's body. He vibrates with some primal urging, some inner tumult. 

"Will, if you speak of Turner, is dead, sir. He died five years ago." These harshly spoken words are a bloodied whip upon the man's metaphysical flesh, flagellating the sudden blooming hope. 

"Then who be you, lad?" Jack demands. His voice is calm as a placid lake, yet a mighty tempest is brewing to stir up long settled silt and mud.

"I am a nothing: a ghost or a nightmare, whatever you choose." The young man undoes the ties of his cow-hide apron and yanks it off. He flings the garment over a barrel at hand. Every motion speaks of great agitation and inner turmoil. 

"And what if I choose to make you Will Turner, son of Bootstrap Bill Turner?" A rolling, convulsive shudder runs the course of the smith's lean frame. For a moment Jack fears that the young man will shake himself apart, the tidy aggregate of limbs falling to pieces. Rationally he knows this to be impossible, but he knows the fantastical to be true. 

"Then you'd be the greatest fool I ever met." Jack cannot stand this useless verbal stand off a moment longer. Five years have healed the incorporeal wound left by Will's declared death, but a deep scar remains to itch and bother him. Now a newly wrought dagger carves it open and threatens further injury as the lad denies his own existence. He won't allow this! Not this time. 

He grabs the youth's arm and drags him close. He bodily invades his personal space and feels the reverberating tension leach into his own glass bones. 

"You have no right to declare me a fool, boy. If a fool stands in this room, then he be you." The smith does not flinch under the seething glare or cow before the growled words. "Do you know how many people are hurting over you? Fair Miss Swann has gone back to bonny England to cry over you. Her father lives in regret of his actions. My God, even that stick of a commodore dwells on the past. None of them can move on because of you."

"And you honestly believe that my miraculous appearance five years ago would have affected a change?"

"You selfish puppy! You have no idea—!"

"No, Jack, _you_ have no idea," Will shoots back as he jerks himself free. "If they knew I lived, if they knew what those…those poxy bastards left me as, they would be wishing I had been dead.

"Just leave now and forget about this, about me. I cannot go back. I cannot be the Will everyone remembers. I'm…Black." He roughly pushes past the pirate and stalks to the door. 

"You can't run away from things, Will! I won't let you." The last is hissed dangerously, determinedly. It is no great feat to bound across the short distance separating them, but it is a slightly more difficult task to grab a hold of the resolute blacksmith and pin him against the door. Jack's forearm braced against his windpipe finally forces docility in the struggling body. There is power in restraining such a one, but the pirate does not dwell on this as seething anger and ire dominate his mind. 

"You think that whatever they may have done or made you do is so bloody terrible. You honestly believe you're this king among sinners, a paragon of the damned." Will glares impotently at him. Sweat carves shiny trails through the soot and grime on his face. It would be easy, too easy, for Jack to press more firmly against that helpless neck until the lad's body fights for breath. He could crush the windpipe slowly, watch Will struggle for breath that would never come. He could do this; the urge is there. It tells him to extirpate that which causes him pain. Such a philosophy offers great facility of conscience. Sweet simplicity itself. He is used to lashing out and eliminating whatever roils him, but he fathoms such an action to be counterproductive. 

He takes a cleansing breath, a susurration for divine guidance lacing the exhalation.

"You're not a ruined man. As long as you live, you have a future." For once Jack does not dissimulate with words. His jocular attitude is long gone and so too is the heated menace. Mere words cannot offer respite from the youth's own self-loathing.

The pirate expects any number of reactions to his uncharacteristically earnest words, but hysterical laughter and desperate tears are not any of those. The throat beneath his arm works harshly as the discordant noise debouches stretched lips. Alarm surges through Jack, and he moves away lest he inadvertently strangle the youth, never mind that he been contemplating it mere moments before. There seems to be no end in sight for Will's paroxysm. The pirate does the first action that comes to mind: he knocks the lad out with a well aimed fist. 

*~*~*~*

Doctor Smith's gaze is mild but disapproving. He has not said a thing since Jack entered carrying the youth's insensible body, save to inquire upon the pirate's choice of drink. Now he and Jack partake of the respective refreshments (coffee for the chirurgeon and rum for the pirate) and await a lull in the silence to speak. 

The little man must know the reason behind Will's unwillingness to reveal his continued existence, Jack decides. He just cannot conceive, being nigh well un-shockable, of what actions the pirates could have perpetrated against the youth to cause such reticence. Well, considering that the smith was still something of a stick during their last encounter, the pirates could have sneezed on him and he would have considered himself forever ruined. This last thought elicits a morbid laugh. The man gives him a questioning look. 

"So." He draws the word out while cracking the vertebrae in his neck. "How long have you known the lad?" Now the look Jack receives is considering. A profusion of carefully organized thoughts tick behind the man's eyes in, the pirate imagines, trim ranks. He is being judged by the chirurgeon against some superlative standard. One would think he holds the vastness of the heavens in his mortal mind or a library of moldering philosophes. 

"Around the advancement of five years," is the decided upon answer. Jack nods his head with due gravity and considers his next inquiry with sly patience. He would like to believe himself clever and in possession of a pretty wit, but cleverness and wit warrant greater companionship when matched against like. He requires keen observation and knowledge of his oral sparing partner. What he does spreads out in bits and pieces like a street peddler's wares displayed on a fine cloth for prospective customers. 

Organization and tidiness rule the obvious characteristics of the chirurgeon. Everything has a place and is in it, which is an inverse of Jack's own beliefs to which everything is happenstance. Books in dead tongues and not so dead tongues dwell in dark wood cases. The grisly tools of his trade are out of sight in marked cabinets. Dust and filth are unwelcome interlopers. The homes of kings and nobles cannot hope to compete with the chirurgeon's home for cleanliness. No doubt his thoughts follow a course of orderliness to set rank officers and their companies to shame. Furthermore, his closed mouth responses concerning his assistant seem to indicate unwavering loyalty to others' confidences. All in all the man is a case study in simplicity, yet impregnable because of that. 

"How did you come to know him?" Again Smith weighs, measures and values his words upon a scale only he can see and against other words only he can give estimate to. Jack masks his impatience with a laconic façade that has ever served faithfully as he mines for information among his fellow human beings. 

"His injuries recommended him to me."

"What injuries?" The final question exits his mouth without receiving censure from his adept mind. The chirurgeon shakes his head to signal the dance to have ended. The pirate will not gain further confidence until certain, hitherto unspoken conditions are met.

"That is for him to discuss, if he wishes." The man sips his coffee calmly. His eyes upon Jack are level and musing. "You seem to have known him before so I should warn you that to go about searching for the person you remember is folly. You might have been his closest companion or some such acquaintance before, but I doubt you now carry the same recommendation. All previous relationships are tainted by his present. He is tainted by the past."

"So, somewhere in that rambling speech of yours, I got the feeling that I have to be catering to this new mood of his and earn his trust, or I might as well take my li'l ole self back the way I came, true?"

"Thereabouts," the man admits with a bemused twist of his lips. 

"What if I'm naught but the lad's enemy? What sage advice then?" The gaze leveled at Jack is painfully pitying. 

"Sir, I can very well see in what direction your profession lies. However, I sense that, like all men who are adherent to some manner of creed or system, you have honor insomuch as it is required and in your own fashion. It is the mandate of survival in a profession where truth is without fixed coordinates."

"I see," the pirate answers with a feral grin. "Always trust a dishonest man 'cause his actions won't surprise you."

"That and the fact you could have killed the boy and left, and I wouldn't have known till I called him in for supper."

*~*~*~*

"I want a word or two with you, lad," Jack announces grandly to a recently conscious Will. The youth's glare is not as vitriolic as previous incarnations, but Jack is still thankful that the eye cannot cause physical injury.

His heart is both a plug of lead slowly crushing his soft innards and a sphere of refulgent light. Here is the ephemeral phantasm of his dreams made flesh and bone, yet all that fills this husk is a miasma of self-loathing. A shattered simulacrum of a young man glares at him without the fire of old. The pirate has unwittingly stumbled upon a cache of unnamed treasure only to find it to be a reflection in a cracked mirror. Yet he still desires. 

Where is the young, passionate Turner he knew? The youth says he is dead; the chirurgeon says he is tainted. Jack refuses the premise of the former on the grounds of his own obstinance to believe that, and fears the latter as an inspanable rift. Thus, he must needs seek a third option hitherto unknown. 

"I will not go back," the smith assures him coldly. The pirate nods his ornamented head in momentary acquiescence to this declaration. A burgeoning plan to catch that third option unawares percolates in his devious mind. All he needs is a net of suitably chosen words.

*&*&*&*&*&*

*stretches, vertebrae pop* This entire thing was handwritten in wonderful green ink by my favorite new pen. It has now been transcribed. I hope that this shall be as well received as the previous portions. If not, I shall ever endeavor to write something more suitable. 

*

To those who have so graciously reviewed:

**Evil Kistune, Moonfairy2000, ElvenRanger13, jacklover, iceheart3000, DaughterofDeath, The Printer, Nozomi no Jiyuu, Theresa, Wolf Maid**, I am deeply grateful to all of you for taking the time out of your lives to review this story. I hope that this chapter will meet with your kind approval, and, if not, I shall endeavor with utmost dedication to rectify the situation. Thank you for your wonderful patience.

**Hitokiri Elf slayer of evi**l, thank you so much for your support. I am quite happy that you feel that this story should not be flamed. It is of great encouragement to encounter such fierce defense!

**LAXgirl**, Your wonderful review has given me quite the boost to continue! I wish I could take credit for my writing style, but I am merely a foolish hanger-on in the wake of such acclaimed literary personages as Neil Stephenson and Margaret Atwood. It is from reading their sublimely wonderful books (_Snow Crash, Quicksilver_, and _Oryx and Crake_, etc.) that I have adopted this peculiar style. Present tense denotes present actions and the current plotline. Past tense, in the next chapter, will be employed to signify events and actions occurring in the past of the plotline. I have found that by using this method the action takes on a more inclusive feeling for the reader, and separating flashbacks from the present is cleaner. If you are interested in other fic. writers or published authors utilizing this contemporary style, I would be more than happy to direct you to them. Again, thank you for your deep and thorough contemplation of my story. I am thrilled to find another person who thinks highly enough of me to comment!


	4. Chapter Three

**This story is currently on its 5th Chapter!** However, I dislike the slowness of this site at allowing in-chapter corrections after posting (24 hour wait is too long!). However, with the new changes in script, I may post the other chapters here.

**Chapters 4 and 5** are currently posted on my livejournal (along with many **NC-17** stories, **Drabbles**, and **Ficlets**). Find them here: http : www . livejournal . com / users / sy[insert underscore]fanfiction . To use the URL delete the spaces and insert an underscore (it's the little low line you get when you press - and shift) between "sy" and "fanfiction". Feel free to email me with questions.

* * *

::Change in the House of Flies::

Chapter Three

* * *

_  
"Yer the guvnor's boy, aren't ye?" Blackened and yellowed teeth gleaming with saliva. A noise behind but too late to turn._

_Crack!_

_Pain._

_Gritty sand. Horrible grins. Demons staring out of the eyes of men._

_"I 'ope for yer sake 'e pays up."_

_Laughter._

_Darkness.  
_

* * *

Captain Jack Sparrow decides that Will will never be a good player of bluffing games as he observes the youth's countenance. Every emotion, every thought and idea waltz brazenly across his features. At any one moment, Jack can tell exactly what Will is contemplating.

The small room gives off the discomfiting air of a prison cell, or so the pirate feels. Four white walls, one window and minimal furnishings (cot, armoire and chair) comprise the totality of the space. At least there are no bars upon the aperture; instead there are sturdy wood-slat shutters. The lad has been living here for the past five years and yet there are no mementos or personal effects to speak of. Remove the youth from the bed and one would never suspect the room to be inhabited. Jack prefers the well-lived-in look; his attire and his own quarters on the _Pearl_ attest to this.

"That will take at least a month, if not more," the lad announces.

"Indeed." Jack has just reeled off a list of necessities that require a blacksmith's tender ministrations and with each item mentioned Will's incredulity mounts.

"You do not need me for those. Most of them you can buy from local merchants." The youth's look turns disapproving. "Or appropriate them from some vessel." Jack waves his hands as if shooing Will's words away and smiles wide enough to show off many a gold tooth.

"I could do that, true, but"—Jack places a finger alongside his nose and winks—"my precious lady only gets the best, as do her crew and her captain."

"No." The line of the lad's jaw becomes determined. The purpling bruise where Jack's fist made acquaintance with his face heaps reprimands upon him. Perhaps he shouldn't have given Will such a tap; it doesn't appear to have sweetened his mood any.

"Now, Will, don't be like that." The last living Turner gives Jack a dark glare and tells him in small words that he will very well be what he wants to. Will makes many motions to leave the cot, but Smith's stern medical orders keep him there. Jack suspects that the little man simply desires the two of them to have a talk and knows that the smith is unlikely to be cooperative if ambulatory.

"I no longer work on sundry items; I craft edges solely." For a moment justified pride fills his lean body then slowly dissipates to leave the smith a fatigued mortal. Jack had long suspected that the lad's dream had always lain with the art of swords and not with the banal work of blacksmithing. "Besides, Doctor Smith requires my assistance most days."

"True. True." The pirate stretches his legs and grins slyly. "So why do you not simply start up your own forge and become your own man?"

"There are many reasons and I haven't the patience to enlighten you. Now will you please leave? Return to your _Pearl_ and forget." Jack inspects his nails and tugs at the cuff of one sleeve. He crosses his long legs one way and then the other.

"Now, William, I can't be doing that. See, I came here with a purpose and I have yet to fulfill it. Now, when I do, I'll take my little ole self aways faster than a heartbeat, but until then I'm quite happy to remain."

"What is it you want, Jack?" Will asks resignedly. Capitulation is no small feat, the pirate can read this plainly across the open book that is the youth's expressive face. Of course then there is the matter of the question itself—such a loaded set of words when combined in such a manner and spoken from such a one as the lad. Possible replies range from the grossly blatant propositions, subtle innuendo and finally to the initial reason for the necessity of seeking out the services of a blacksmith.

"I want to know why." He holds up a hand to forestall the inevitable protests from the smith. "But for now I'll settle for commission from your adroit hands." Jack leans forward and grasps said hands before Will is able hide them. They are rough hands, tradesmen hands, and they speak far more eloquently than words the profession of their owner. Each callous attests to the diligence and determination of the youth. He meticulously inspects each finger of each hand. He finds it rather odd that, before now, he has never really touched the lad; certainly Will would not be so complacent.

Then he comes across the scarred protuberance of flesh where the smith's ring finger on his left hand should be. His dark gaze fixes upon the amputation and his thoughts churn. He has never paid particular attention to these hands before, but he is certain that all fingers had been present and accounted for before.

Will jerks his hands free of Jack's slack grasp and draws them protectively to his chest. The silent minutes creep by on razor paws. The young man refuses to meet the pirate's questioning gaze.

"It was the first," Will admits softly. His young face is harder than Jack thought it could ever look. Time and despair have wrought a strange transformation upon the strikingly naïve innocent.

"The first?" The first what? Jack wants to demand. He senses—he knows—that Will wants to confide, wants to relieve himself and find absolution. The need is too pure, so raw and unadulterated that its very potency causes the pirate to want to shy away. The intensity of Will's desire to unfold his mind can barely be restrained. However, an almost equal terror closes his lips, and so Jack cannot turn away from such desperation. He cannot pretend this to be someone else's problem, no matter how much he wishes to. There are moments when one must flee and others when one must stand firm. He's not sure which to be the wiser course, but then he has never considered himself to be particularly wise—just lucky.

Will wants to be forced to confess and Jack wants to know. It's funny how things work out this way.

"They needed to prove that they had taken me." The young man absently runs the thumb of his right hand around the stump.

00000000  
00000000

"We can't just be makin' claims, understand? We need proof, evidence or what have you," the captain said affably as he examined Will's work-roughened hands. All the struggling and gagged expletives had proved useless; the boy understood that there would be no clemency granted in this situation. He had been told quite plainly that any more attempts to fight would lead to a rather unpleasant and sticky end.

He needed to survive if he ever wanted to get back to Elizabeth. As long as he lived, there was hope. He would have to endure these blackguards vulgarity and grossness for the sake of his bride-to-be and their future together. He could do it. He would do it. Never mind that every roll of the deck nearly undid his balance; or that his vision remained blurry from the crack on the head; or the fact that he was currently in the vile clutches of pirates; or that his legs seemed to be made of grass shoots instead of bone, he had faced worse and he believed in good triumphing over evil.

His stomach was about to rebel!

"Get the carpenter. We need to make a wedding gift for the governor's daughter," the captain shouted. "And bring me a barrel of salt pork and some pitch." A few members of the crew immediately scrambled off to obey. The grip upon Will's hands increased by increments. The captain smirked engagingly from behind his dark brown beard.

A few minutes later a grubby, jaundiced sailor rolled a barrel in front of the captain and quickly disappeared into the jeering crowd. Another brought a bucket of heated pitch. For a moment the malodorous perfume of unwashed pirates was overpowered by the pungent odor of distilled coal tar. Then the wind changed course and the reek of rank bodies and various dried substances of unsavory natures filled the boy's sensitive nostrils. He choked back a sudden upsurge of stomach bile. He refused to give these miscreants the pleasure of seeing him losing his stomach again.

He had to believe that the governor would agree to the ransom: the release of several of the captain's trusted companions and a rather large sum (the exact figure had not been made known to him). He continued to repeat this as one particularly large crewmember held his left hand, fingers splayed, upon the closed lid of the barrel. The carpenter emerged brandishing a wicked chisel and a large mallet. He gave Will cold glare and positioned the edged instrument just below his promise ring, the consort of which resided on fair Elizabeth's finger.

"This might sting a bit, mate," the carpenter told him. The low hum of cruel amusement broke out into roars of coarse laughter. Will closed his brown eyes and gritted his teeth. He could do this.

He had to.

He had to live…for Eliza—

The mallet drove the chisel through the meat of his finger, through the bone and lodged it in the barrel wood. Gagged scream. Oh God! The devil's fire streamed up his arm and bludgeoned its way into his mind. So much red, too much. Oh God.

"Put pitch on that!" he heard the captain command as his body swayed to the erratic throb of his heart.

Vision swimming in and out of focus, he watched the captain hold aloft his severed digit. The pregnant sun caught hold of the blood-spattered ring and infused it with blinding beauty. Oh God.

As the carpenter covered the amputation with pitch, he felt a small portion of his hope wither.

Please, God.

00000000  
00000000

Tension rides through the air and asphyxiates Jack. He watches Will smile just this side of bitterly and abscond his maimed hand beneath the bedclothes. The pirate finds himself drawn and quartered by the emotions tumbling through his being. He is unable to attribute the proper names to said feelings, but they all lead to a stymied urge for vengeance. The news of Will's death enraged him, and his retribution followed soon afterwards. Jack will scour the globe to reacquire that which has been taken or else take his measure of flesh to reimburse the loss. Seeing the shrunken spirit before him causes the man to wish that he had not yet killed the sadistic bastard. His vengeance was taken at too low a price. Now there is no way to remedy the discrepancy.

He failed to rescue Will; he has failed to revenge him.

"And the others?" The young man cuts him a quick glance. Stone walls rise up around his mind as Jack watches with bemusement. The lad has closed the portal revealing his still seeping lesion.

"What special commission concerns you?" Will asks. The Pirate accepts the diverging topic without blinking. Nonchalantly he unbuckles his sword belt and tosses the whole contraption onto Will's lap. The lad withdraws the weapon and issues a pained sounding hiss of breath.

"What did you do to it, Jack?" The smith's gaze is reproachful.

"It weren't my fault, honestly." The pirate shrugs and holds out his hands in a gesture of innocence.

"So you want a new one?"

"That was the original purpose behind my venturing here. Well, not here-here precisely." He gives the sparsely furnished room a little smirk. "But this settlement here-here. For a blacksmith. Obviously need a new one. Can't be a respectable pirate without one." Will does not rise to the bait, and Jack finds himself disappointed that his use of the word 'respectable' juxtaposed with 'pirate' warrants no reaction. Once upon a time the youth would have made some comment or noise or even raised his brows. What has happened to the earnest young man who would have come up with issues concerning the incongruity of the combination of the two words?

The young smith has changed.

"I want to see the payment first," the lad announces coolly. Jack takes a moment to regard his transformed companion with a little frown of surprise.

"You don't trust me word?"

"Besides the fact that I have not received your word, I do not trust pirates in general and you in specific. I will be no one's dupe."

The urge to grasp the young man's broad shoulders and shake him while demanding to know what he has done with the real Will Turner is strong within Jack. Something infinitely precious and innocent has been cruelly torn from the lad. The man can almost visualize the colorless void where the smith's trust in humanity once dwelled.

The finger was the first…what else was taken from him? What happened to so thoroughly destroy him?

"And how can I trust you to do good work?" Pride and anger spark in those opaque brown eyes. Will pulls his back straight and levels an affronted glare at Jack.

"I would never give only a portion of myself to my work. Never."

"I know." The unaffected gravity of the pirate's tone baffles the young man and his momentary disconcertion is clearly illustrated on his face. A quirky grin re-establishes Will's equilibrium.

"So what do you want?"

Jack adores and loathes that question. On one hand it offers innumerable opportunities to sharpen his wit, but on the other it has a tendency to get him slapped when his answer proves unsatisfactory to the other party. For the second time that day he decides to treat the inquiry with a marked lack of levity and an unusual amount of forthrightness.

Using his hands as visual aids, he describes in, perhaps unnecessary, detail the weapon he desires, its consort and his new found interest in throwing weapons. The latter three prove to be merely an artifice to extend the completion date, but young Will does not need to be in the know with regards to that.

Determination and tenacity rule Jack's otherwise capricious life and he is quite resolute in coercing the entirety of Turner's recent history into the light.

They haggle on the price for the commission, and for a moment Jack think he can see a remnant of the youth's old energy flaring up. They eventually agree upon a price—Jack would have bargained with more zeal, but he has a strange compulsion not to under value the lad's work and has found the élan of their intercourse to be quite stimulating. With the conclusion of their negotiations the splinter of his familiar Will drowns in the rising tide of this other Will. If he could dive in and drag the lad to the surface, he would. Yet there are some oceans that even Captain Jack Sparrow cannot swim.

"I will do this for you, Jack. But this will be the only and last time. When I am finished, you will leave and not search me out again."

"Unless you want me to."

"Unless I—and why would I do that?" The pirate shrugs carelessly.

"You never know. You might find living all uptight and cloistered away to be no fun." He winks. "Pirate blood and all that."

"I am no pirate and I never will be, blood or no."

"Maybe then you'll simply be wanting to stop running away."

"'Running away'?" Will sputters indignantly.

"Well, lad, I'd best be going now. Don't want to get you all riled." Jack rolls to his feet and gives Will a small, almost mocking bow as he moves to the door. "I might drop by to check on your progress."

"I will not be making progress until I'm paid."

"Then I shall have to bring it," Jack quips.

"See that you do. I will be waiting." The pirate doffs his battered hat and exits with all the dramatics he has had years to perfect.

00000000

"Why did you lead him here?" Doctor Smith raises inquiring brows as he sips his coffee. Will Turner regards him stoically from the bottom of the stairs leading to the second floor. The little man makes no mention of the youth being out of bed despite his strict orders.

"Why did you lead the pirate here?" Will clarifies, though he suspects the balding man requires no clarification and is simply being difficult.

"He respects his profession," the chirurgeon answers. Will digests this with a mildly nauseated frown. "Would you have rather I allowed him to procure one of Gow's blades?"

"No, but…"

"You know him or knew him, correct?"—nod—"Then on that ground you would not have him use a merely serviceable weapon. However, if I had brought some other pirate, then you would have preferred that I had not, true?"

"I would not furnish a pirate to kill innocents."

"But this man _is_ a pirate and he intends to use the blade for more than just threat, innocents or sinners aside. What is the difference?"

"Jack is a good man." A recurrent sensation of this conversation stings the young man.

"You know this only from experience. If you had not known him and he had come, would you rather I ignored him?"

"I…You see…" Smith watches him kind patience. "What do you want me to say?" The man takes a sip of his drink and shrugs. "Are you attempting impart some moral lesson?"

"I have merely answered your question, son," the little man replies with a serene smile.

"You just asked more questions!"

"I answered it first, and then I asked a question, to be fair." Will thinks on this and retraces the course of their discourse.

"That was not much of an answer, sir."

"Then perhaps you should judge the quality of your question." The man's tone is conversational and without censure. He has merely stated a view. The youth cannot find it in himself to become offended.

"Are you going to furnish this particular pirate?"

"If he pays first."

"You don't trust him?"

"Not when it comes to shiny bits of metal."

"What do you trust him with?"

The young man's response is too quiet to be heard, if in fact he has vocalized a response at all. Smith sets down the cup on its matching saucer and picks up a half-read epistle. Will touches the livid bruise on his jaw and decides to take a walk.

"Try to make it to supper," the man calls tranquilly after him.

* * *

_"You know, boy, it takes three miracles to become a saint." Genial smile._

_Pulse thundering through fragile veins. Severed finger laying pale and bloodied on a dirty palm. Oh God. Oh God._

_"Three has always been my lucky number."_

* * *

00000000  
  
I apologize for the condition of the previous chapter. I had not realized that I posted the wrong edition until last week. Thankfully, while working on this, I reread it to reference a certain description and discovered the disaster that was Chapter Two. Spelling and grammatical errors abounded, ran rampant and unchecked. I am deeply shamed.

However, I am ebullient that people managed to overlook my transgression and allowed themselves to give unto me kind words and encouragement. To show my appreciation I have made this chapter slightly longer than is normative for me (and, no, the following words have no affect on the story content length).

Reviewers:

**pendragginink**, Always a true pleasure to receive your words, and so many of them! You are always thoughtful and thorough and, I must admit, have contributed to the length of this WIP with all your ideas. You are ever an inspiration, truly! However, the wait will be over with the 6th chapter (chapter five is already up on my livejournal). Will's mystery shall be dispelled and Jack will be forced to deal with the ramifications that always companion knowledge.

**DaughterofDeath**, Your wish is my command!

**jacklover**, Thank you ever so much! I am glad to have been the author of such enthusiasm in you. Truly!

**Moonfairyhime**, Oh, that is too kind! Thank you for your kind regards.

**npetrenko**, Your regards are always much sought after. I am most glad that you have deemed this story worthy of your words.

**Wolf Maid**, I am overwhelmed with the kindness you have displayed in your review. I only wish I was truly worthy of your approbation. You have honored me deeply. I only hope that you have found this poor offering to be of some entertainment.

**QueenofMercury**, Well, I am always immeasurably pleased to be the progenitor of something that attracts the attention of one who does not usually find interest in my genres. I can only hope that your attentions are not misplaced! Thank you!

**iceheart3000**, Sore wa himitsu desu! Only Jack can tell you that, but hopefully I have made it partially apparent what he intends. Thank you ever so much for your encouragement!

**Lelena, The Loopy**, Your name is lovely, dear! Oh and you have hit it, as the saying goes, spot on the nose, but we should keep it silence until the 6th chapter is finished. Then everyone will know! Furthermore, you have moved me to ecstatic faints with all you praise and by the fact that you are not die-hard slasher and still you liked this. You do my heart well, you surely do!

**Unable To Cry**, Oh, you are far to generous with your words for one such as myself to handle. What to say? How may I most sincerely express the gratitude filling my core? Words? Words mean nothing in the face of sentiments! Thank you, thank you.

**Elenlor Edhelen**, You will have to wait till the 6th chapter! Thank you for your encouragement. Hopefully this update meets with your approval!

**cheatachu82**, Everyone else must truly thank you for reminding me that I had this story posted on this site! I had plum forgotten it was here since I have almost abandoned this site in favor of archives less riddled with Mary Sues and female OCs. For you, truly, this update is dedicated!


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